UC-NRLF 


SB    273    E31 


NGS 


VERSES 


An  Old  Man's  Musings 

and 

OTHER  VERSES 

BY 

WILLIAM  HATHORN  MILLS 


SECOND  EDITION 


LEDERER,  STREET  &  ZEUS  COMPANY 
BERKELEY,  CALIFORNIA 

1922 


Contents 

MUSINGS 

De    Senectute 7 

Irrequieta  Quies 8 

Aequam  Memento 9 

Straight    10 

Gentleship   1 1 

A   Training   School 13 

Sunt  Lacrimae  Rerum 14 

Beyond   the   Veil 15 

The  Valley  of  Baca 17 

Discipline  18 

Amplius    20 

Sublimius 21 

Avalon 22 

Words    23 

A   Pilgrim's  Progress 24 

A  Mighty  Monosyllable 25 

The  Mystery  of  Being 26 

Euge   28 

MISCELLA 

Kinship    31 

A    Cameo 32 

Vates    Sacer 33 

Posies  34 

Mirrors    37 

Epigrammata  Quaedam 38 

Old-Time    Apothegms 40 

D.    E.    S 41 

Christmas  Day 43 

Amaranto  „ 43 

Homeward    Bound 44 

Troth-Plight    44 

Einheriar  45 

Our    Dead 47 

On  Mount  Soracte 48 

Dogged 49 


491578 


MUSINGS 


De  Senectute 


are  the  things,  the  lessons,  which  old  age 
Teaches  a  man,  when  he  has  come  to  it? 
Three  things,  at  least;  and  he  need  be  no  sage 
To  know  them ;  they  are  learnt  by  native  wit. 

First  tolerance — tolerance  of  the  infirmities 
To  which  all  flesh  is  heir,  of  aims  and  views 

Not  his,  of  youth's  impetuosities; 
For  each  and  all  of  these  he  finds  excuse. 

This  tolerance  is  not  careless  unconcern, 
Not  weak  assent  to  things  he  scorns  and  hates; 

It's  patient  hope  that  ignorance  may  learn; 

For  better  things  he  works  and,  hoping,  waits. 

Next  level-mindedness.    "Naught  in  excess" 
Is  Nature's  word  to  him;  he  does  his  best, 

Aims  at  the  golden  mean,  desires  success, 
But,  missing  it,  is  not  over-much  depressed. 

Life,  he  has  seen,  has  many  ups  and  downs, 
But  mostly  strikes  an  average  on  the  whole; 

And  so  he  sets  its  smiles  against  its  frowns, 
And  keeps  unswayed  the  balance  of  his  soul. 

Lastly  submission  to  the  Eternal  Will; 

He  slighted  it,  maybe  he  fought  it,  when 
His  life  was  young  within  him;  now  the  still 

Small  Voice  speaks  to  him,  and  he  says  Amen. 

He  knows  that  death  cannot  be  far  away, 

Ponders  its  mystery,  and,  in  the  light 
Shed  on  it  by  the  Resurrection  Day, 

Sees  in  its  witness  grace  no  less  than  might. 

It  bids  him  realize  God's  omnipotence; 

It  bids  him  realize  also  God's  intent 
To  bring  us  thro'  this  world  of  time  and  sense 

To  the  eternal  world,  and  bows  consent. 

[7] 


Irrequieta  Quies 


EST  is  not  idleness  ;  there's  rest  in  work, 
In  quiet  industry  ; 
A  thousand  demons  of  unrest  may  lurk 
In  sloth  and  lethargy. 

Labour  there  is,  of  course,  whose  moil  and  toil 

Makes  soul  and  body  faint; 
Aye,  and  there  is  the  work  that  seeks  to  foil 

The  work  of  seer  and  saint. 

These  are  not  restful  labours,  nor  are  these 

The  work  we  have  to  do; 
We  must  be  busy  as  the  busy  bees, 

If  peace  we  would  ensue. 

Add  to  such  industry  the  charities, 
Which  serve  our  brethren's  need; 

These  crown  our  work;  our  very  ministries 
Bring  peace  and  rest  indeed. 

The  idler  is  a  weary  soul,  to  whom 

Rest  is  a  thing  unkent; 
Satan  employs  him,  and  he  earns  a  doom 

Of  restless  discontent. 


[8 


Aequam  Memento 


ONCE,  fired  by  thoughts  of  high  success, 
I  cherished  dreams  of  wealth  and  fame, 
And  learnt  to  know  the  bitterness 
Of  disappointed  hope  and  aim. 

Now,  by  a  life's  experience  taught, 
I  wait  to  see  what  time  will  bring, 

Not  downcast,  but  expecting  naught 
Of  any  man  or  any  thing. 

That's  to  throw  up  the  game  of  life ; 

Yes ;  but  is  gaming  life's  intent, 
Life's  meaning?    Anyhow,  rid  of  strife 

And  disappointments,  I'm  content. 

I  keep  my  head,  or  do  my  best 

To  keep  it;  bear  what  bear  I  must; 

Work  as  I  may;  as  for  the  rest — 
Well,  Providence  has  the  rest  in  trust. 

Keep  your  mind,  said  the  Roman  bard, 

Level,  or  in  prosperity, 
Or  when  life's  path  is  steep  and  hard; 

Tough  work,  but  good  philosophy! 


9| 


Straight 


F  you  would  hit  the  waiting  nail 
Upon  the  head,  and  never  fail, 
Aim  straight. 

If  you  would  keep  your  goal  in  sight, 
And,  when  ways  differ,  choose  the  right, 
See  straight. 

If  you  would  win  success,  that's  worth 
The  name,  on  this  phantasmal  earth, 
Run  straight. 

If  you  would  gain  the  trust  and  love 
Of  those  with  whom  you  work  and  move, 
Live  straight. 

If  from  earth's  shadows  you  would  rise 
To  the  clear  light  of  Paradise, 

Qimb  straight. 


[10] 


Gentleship 


HO  is  a  gentleman? 
Is  he  a  man  whose  pedigree 
Is  as  long  as  the  length  of  a  poplar  tree? 

Is  he  a  gentleman? 
That  is  a  prima  facie 
Sense  of  the  word,  but  a  pedigree 
Doesn't  make  a  gentleman. 

Is  he  a  man  who  bears  a  name 

Set  by  forbears  on  the  scroll  of  fame? 

Is  he  a  gentleman? 
Yes,  if  he  lives  up  to  its  claim; 
If  not,  no  title,  no  rank,  no  name, 

Can  make  him  a  gentleman. 

Is  he  a  man  who  has  a  right 
To  bear  a  coat  of  arms — a  quite 

Easily  won  right  now? 
That's  heralds'  law;  whether  a  soul, 
Thus  licensed,  is  on  true  honour's  roll 

It  does  not,  and  cannot,  show. 

Smart  dress,  fine  jewels,  wealth — do  they 
Set  on  a  man  the  grand  cachet, 

The  stamp,  of  a  gentleman? 
A  churl  may  be  smart,  and  have  money-bags ; 
And  a  man  may  be  poor  and  clothed  in  rags, 

And  still  be  a  gentleman. 

A  gentleman  is  a  man  who  is 
Gentle  to  all  about  him — this 

Is  the  test  of  a  gentleman. 
If  he  isn't  gentle,  not  noble  birth, 
Not  titles,  not  all  the  gold  on  earth, 

Can  make  him  a  gentleman. 


[ii] 


This  gentleness  is  of  sympathy 
With  weaker  souls — in  it  you  see 

The  heart  of  a  gentleman. 
It  makes,  with  the  graces  of  loyalty, 
Simplicity,  generosity, 

The  perfect  gentleman. 

The  poet  is  born;  to  learn  his  art 

You  must  have  within  you  the  poet's  heart- 

His  inborn  wit  and  ken. 
Thus  humblest  souls,  with  an  inborn  gift 
Of  gentleness,  by  this  grace  uplift, 

Are  Nature's  gentlemen. 

Note:   Compare  the  saying  "Noblesse  oblige." 


[12J 


A  Training  School 


HY  are  we  born  into  this  life, 
This  world  of  pain  and  care, 
Where  troubles  vex  us  and  where  strife 
Is  rampant  everywhere? 

Two  things  at  least  are  plain  to  sight, 

For  all  who  will  to  see : 
Two  truths  that,  realized,  throw  light 

Upon  the  mystery. 

One  is  that  we  are  born  to  work, 

To  keep  our  garden  drest; 
If  difficulties  make  us  shirk, 

We  are  not  worthy  rest. 

Rest  is  the  prize  of  work  well  done — 
Work  done  with  zeal  and  zest, 

Of  effort  till  success  is  won; 
The  idler  cannot  rest. 

Again,  what  means  the  instinctive  tie, 

The  bond  of  common  blood, 
But  that  men  are  one  family, 

One  blood-bound  brotherhood? 

Cain  slew  his  brother,  and  thereby 

Brought  jealous  passions  in; 
Aye,  but  all  true  humanity 

Cries  out  against  that  sin. 

Ambitious   wars,  trade-jealousies, 

Self-seeking  politics, 
The  grafter's  game  of  grab— at  these 

The  true  world-conscience  kicks. 

Life  is,  in  brief,  a  training-school; 

It  trains  to  energy, 
And,  if  men  learn  its  golden  rule, 

To  kindly  sympathy. 


[13] 


Sunt  Lacrimae  Rerum 


SCULPTURED  upon  a  temple-wall, 
Where  Dido  ruled  the  Libyan  strand, 
The  Trojan  prince  astonished  scanned 
The  story  of  his  country's  fall. 

"Here,  even  here,  is  sympathy 

With  Troy,"  he  cried;  "these  pictured  tears 

Call  us  to  put  aside  all  fears, 
And  promise  us  hospitality/' 

The  oneness  of  humanity — 

That  was  the  truth  he  saw  in  part; 
It's  ours  to  lay  that  truth  to  heart, 

And  fear  to  break  that  unity. 

Cain  broke  it,  and  the  curse  of  Cain 
Awaits  all  souls  who  stir  up  strife, 
And  shed  the  blood,  which  is  the  life, 

For  pride  of  place  or  selfish  gain. 

Against  the  curse  a  blessing  stands — 
The  blessing  won  by  souls  who  fight 
In  the  defence  of  Truth  and  Right, 

With  loyal  hearts  and  willing  hands. 

Aye,  and  it  rests  on  those  who  make 
The  cause  of  suffering  souls  their  care: 
Who  serve  the  poor  and  weak,,  and  bear 

Burdens  of  others,  for  love's  sake. 

"War"  said  a  soldier  once,  "is  hell," 

And  yet  he  fought  for  liberty; 

And  they  who  fight  for  unity, 
And  what  it  means  and  claims,  do  well. 

Words  may  mean  much  or  little;  three 
Are  charged  with  meaning  high  and  broad- 
These  sign-posts  on  the  upward  road, 

Unity,  Sympathy,  Charity. 


[14] 


Beyond  the  Veil 


they  no  thought  for  us,  no  care — 
The  dear  ones  who  have  gone  before? 
Are  they  incurious  how  we  fare? 
Is  all  forgot  that  was  of  yore? 

Ah  no;  a  stream  of  sympathy 

Runs  thro'  Creation's  mighty  whole — 

A  limitless  telepathy, 
That  links  forever  soul  to  soul. 

Why,  even  of  old  the  Roman  bard 
Knew  this,  who  with  his  poet's  ken 

Saw  how  the  dead  still  have  regard 
To  all  the  things  of  mortal  men : 

Telling  how  old  Anchises'  shade 
Watched  o'er  Aeneas'  wander-years : 

How  for  his  weal  he  yearned,  and  made 
His  own  the  wanderer's  hopes  and  fears. 

Thus  too,  by  love  and  pity  moved, 
From  out  their  sphere  beyond  the  veil 

May  friends,  true-hearted  souls  we  loved 
On  earth,  reach  after  us,  nor  fail. 

We  cannot  see,  we  cannot  hear, 

Thoro'  the  intervening  screen; 
They  can,  and  still  they  hold  us  dear; 

Still  they  remember  what  has  been. 

And  as  they  prayed  for  us  of  old, 
And  we  for  them,  so  pray  they  yet, 

So  pray  we;  otherwise  love  were  cold, 
And  hearts  were  learning  to  forget. 

They  cannot  shape  our  destinies. 

And  yet  from  them  in  very  deed 
May  come  the  thoughts  that  make  us  wise, 

Or  comfort  us,  in  time  of  need. 


[15] 


Their  influence,  all  unfelt,  unseen, 
May  shield  us  from  some  threatened  blow — 

May,  as  a  barrier,  stand  between 
Us  and  the  onset  of  some  foe. 

Death,  thou  canst  slay  this  body;  thpu 
Canst  take  our  dear  ones  from  our  sight ; 

But  break  our  fellowship?     That,  we  trow, 
World-conqueror,  is  beyond  thy,  might. 


The  F  alley  of  Baca 


LL  things  are  charged  with  tears.  Ah,  why? 

Because  the  life  we  live  on  earth 
Is  all  a  strange  complexity 

Of  pain  and  pleasure;  grief  and  mirth. 

It's  mortal  life,  and  yet  has  gleams 

In  it  of  immortality; 
It's  fallen  life,  and  yet  has  dreams 

Of  Eden  and  recovery. 

All  Nature  suffered  by  the  Fall 

That  banished  man  from  Paradise; 

Evil  came  in,  and  therefore  all 
Creation,  anguished,  groans  and  sighs. 

Sin's  discords  marred  earth's  harmonies, 
And,  fell  as  blasts  of  poisonous  breath, 

Came  strife,  disease,  disorder,  lies, 
And,  overshadowing  all  things,  death. 

That's  why  all  things  have  tears  in  them  — 
Tears  moved  by  suffering,  failure,  loss; 

That's  why  the  Babe  of  Bethlehem 
Was  born  to  death  upon  the  Cross. 

Yes,  but  that  death  waved  back  the  sword 
That  barred  the  gates  of  Paradise  ; 

The  guardian  cherubs  knew  their  Lord, 
And  welcomed  Him  in  glad  surprise. 

For  us  He  opened  out  the  way 

To  where  death  has  no  empery, 
Where  light  and  life  and  love  hold  sway, 

And  tears  are  wiped  from  every  eye. 


[17] 


Discipline 


HOM  the  gods  love,  die  young,"  'tis  said  ; 
What  does  that  mean?    Is  it  that  life 
Is  but  a  curse,  and  that  the  dead 
Are  blest  as  freed  from  toil  and  strife? 

That's  what  the  saying  means,  I  guess  ; 

But  is  it  true?     For  is  not  life 
A  training  school  for  blessedness? 

And  is  not  peace  born  out  of  strife? 

The  world  is  full  of  evil  —  yes; 

And  life  has  many  a  care  and  pain  ; 
Wars  of  ambition  bring  distress 

On  nations;  toilers  toil  in  vain. 

But  not  all  strife  is  evil  strife; 

Life  has  its  joys  as  well  as  woes; 
Pain  may  be  as  the  surgeon's  knife; 

To  strength  thro'  toil  the  toiler  grows. 

"Strive,"  said  Christ,  "to  enter  in 
By  the  strait  gate"  —  aye,  "agonize"; 

There's  the  good  fight  —  the  fight  with  sin  — 
And  life  eternal  is  the  prize. 

Failures  may  open  out  the  way 

For  high  success;  the  difficulties 
Which  thwart  our  hopes,  and  vex  us,  may 

Be  priceless  blessings  in  disguise. 

Life  is  a  trial-time;  each  test 

Tries  us  to  brace  our  energies. 
Battling  with  evil,  doing  our  best, 

Nor  losing  heart,  we  win  the  prize. 


[18] 


Stragglings  in  weariness  of  heart: 
The  agony  of  self-sacrifice — 

These  shape  the  soul  to  bear  its  part 
In  the  fair  life  of  Paradise. 

Some  tender  souls  there  are  who  need 
Little  of  this  world's  discipline; 

Such  souls  God's  angels  haste  to  lead 
Back  to  the  world  which  knows  no  sin. 


[19] 


Amplius 


FAMOUS  painter  looked  upon 
A  student's  work,  and  wrote  thereon 
Just  Amplius. 

"Work  out  your  visions,  your  designs," 
It  said,  "on  broader,  ampler  lines" — 
That  Amplius. 

"Lengthen  thy  cords,"  the  prophet  cried; 
"Make  wide  thy  bounds,  and  yet  more  wide"- 
'Twas  Amplius. 

We  too,  to  meet  our  spirit's  need, 
Should  on  our  work,  our  aims,  our  creed, 
Write  Amplius. 

For  hearts  are  selfish,  narrow,  cold, 

Till  they  have  learnt  the  secret  told 

By  Amplius. 

"Get  beyond  self,  get  beyond  all 
Self-seeking  narrowness,"  is  the  call 
Of  Amplius. 

"Think  thoughts,  do  deeds,  of  charity, 
Sympathy,  generosity," 

Says  Amplius. 

It's  ours,  in  answer  to  that  cry, 
To  make  our  hearts  and  lives  reply, 
"Aye,  Amplius." 

So  shall  we  come  to  realize 
The  truth  of  things  in  clearer  wise, 
And  Amplius. 

So  shall  we  make  our  life's  design 
Copy  more  nearly  the  Divine; 
That's  Amplius. 


[20] 


Sublimius 


OF  all  the  mottoes,  which  a  man 
Can  choose,  there  is  none  better  than 
Sublimius. 

The  youth  who  clomb  the  mountain  side 
Crying  Excelsior!  should  have  cried 
Sublimius. 

"Taller"  was  what  he  said,  but  his 
Idea  was  "Higher  up" — that  is 
Sublimius. 

It  brings  hard  work,  for  it  implies 
Ascent;  by  difficult  steps  we  rise 
Sublimius. 

Yes,  but  it's  worth  it  all  the  time; 

We  mount  to  happiness  as  we  climb 

Sublimius. 

You  hear  as  it  were  a  noble  chord 
Of  solemn  music  in  that  word, 
Sublimius. 

High  purpose,  scorn  of  self  and  sin, 
Patient  endeavour,  meet  within 
Sublimius. 

It  says  what  "Sursum  Corda"  says, 
And  adds,  "Lift  up  your  lives  always 
Sublimius." 

Labour  is  prayer;  aye,  and  it's  praise; 
"Work  out  your  aspirations"  says 
Sublimius. 

It  means  the  path  of  duty  trod — 
The  path  which  leads,  as  up  to  God, 
Sublimius. 


[21] 


Avalon 


AMBKIN  and  wolf— that  is,   tame  beasts 

wild— 

"Shall  dwell  together,  and  a  little  child 
Shall  lead  them" — this,  said  Judah's  seer,  shall  be 
In  the  Messiah's  reign  of  equity. 

Not  yet  is  that  new  order  consummate; 
Not  yet  is  this  world  rid  of  strife  and  hate ; 
Wild  beasts  still  ravin  for  their  prey,  and  still 
Men,  wilder  than  wild  beasts,  work  death  and  ill. 

Yet  there's  a  ministry  of  leading  on, 

Which  children  serve,  unto  an  Avalon 

Of  peace — their  own  small  world  of  shows  and  plays — 

Where  tired  old  souls  may  rest,  e'en  nowadays. 

Led  by  a  little  child,  sharing  its  joys, 
Its  interests,  its  fancies,  its  employs, 
Souls,  weary  of  life's  war,  find  a  surcease 
From  the  long  agony,  and  are  at  peace. 

And  it  may  be  that,  when  stern  punishment 
Has  purged  brute  souls,  Heaven's  after-instrument 
Of  discipline  will  be — not  judgment's  rod, 
But — hands  of  children,  leading  them  to  God. 


[22] 


Words 


OT  words  but  deeds — 'tis  an  old  tale — 
Yet  words  have  worth  and  use; 
True  words  are  gospels;  if  they  fail, 
'Tis  ears  that  need  excuse. 

"Words,  idle  words,"  folk  say,  and  yet 

Words  may  be  things  that  do; 
"Up,  Guards,  and  at  'em"  sped  the  onset 

That  settled  Waterloo. 

"Noblesse  oblige" — a  phrase — may  mean 

Devotion  unto  death; 
Words  may  be  fire — aye,  words  have  been 

As  wafts  of  heavenly  breath. 

Rightly  we  blame  the  man  whose  tongue 

Does  all  he  cares  to  do; 
But  what  of  him  whose  words  mean  strong 

Purpose  and  effort  too  ? 

Rightly  again  we  blame  the  man 

Who  speaks  to  curse  or  lie; 
Speech  that  is  used  for  lie  or  ban 

Savours  of  blasphemy. 

Mere  words,  bad  words — these  are  as  naught, 

Or,  worse,  as  injury; 
But  words  that  echo  gracious  thought 

Have  a  true  ministry. 

But  ears  must  hear;  in  vain  the  sower 

Sows  seed  in  barren  earth ; 
Dull  hearts  rob  eloquence  of  its  power, 

And  make  speech  nothing  worth. 

Who  scorn  good  words  scorn  seeds  of  Truth, 

And  miss  her  fruits  thereby; 
They  had — and  this  shall  be  their  ruth — 

Their  opportunity. 


[23] 


A  Pilgrim 's  Progress 


is  the  door  to  life— to  that  large  life 
That  lies  beyond  the  grave :  the  life  wherein 
Souls  are  delivered  from  earth's  ceaseless  strife, 

And  cleansed  by  purgatorial  discipline: 
The  life  that,  as  aeonian,  stage  by  stage 
Lifts  souls,  that  will,  to  man's  true  heritage. 

Aeonian  life — that  is,  a  life  that  grows 
Thro'  ages  to  the  fulness  of  its  height; 

Each  life-age  has  its  death,  to  mark  its  close, 
And  usher  in  an  age  of  higher  light; 

And  souls  rise  thro'  these  stages  of  ascent 

Just  as  God  calls  them,  and  their  wills  consent. 

Man's  heritage — what  is  it?     God  designed 
That  man  should  be  to  Him  a  very  son, 

To  stand  before  His  Face:  to  know  His  mind, 
And  do  His  bidding  gladly  and  anon. 

Man  is  an  heir  of  Heaven,  and  Heaven  is  still 

Open  to  every  soul  that  does  God's  will. 

Ah,  if  the  prodigal  will  but  return, 
He  yet  may  win  back  to  his  lost  estate ; 

The  vision  of  God,  Godlikeness,  life  eterne, 
Await  him,  beckon  him  home  thro'  mercy's  gate; 

Return  may  mean  a  weary  pilgrimage, 

And  long;  yet  may  he  make  it,  stage  by  stage. 


[24] 


A  Mighty  Monosyllable 


OVE— what  is  love?    A  love  there  is, 

So  called,  that  is  of  selfishness; 
True  love  has  naught  to  do  with  this; 
It  seeks — not  blessing,  but — to  bless ; 
With  faith  and  hope  on  either  side, 
It  leads  the  graces  that  abide. 

Yes,  that  is  love — the  charity 
That  is  a  temper  of  God's  heart, 

Requickened  in  all  souls  that  die 
To  self,  and  choose  the  better  part; 

Self-love  spells  death;  love  cannot  die; 

Its  life  is  of  eternity. 

Its  name,  a  monosyllable; 

Itself  unutterably  great, 
Love  is  of  Heaven,  as  lust  of  hell; 

It  masters  self,  and  conquers  hate. 
The  Hebrew  Tetragrammaton 
And  it,  for  God  is  Love,  are  one. 


[25 


The  Mystery  of  Being 


HAT  man  was,  what  he  is,  what  he 
May  be —  who  has  not  sought 
To  solve  the  threefold  mystery 
Of  being,  of  will,  of  thought? 

Seers  have  caught  mirrored  gleams  of  Truth 

In  Revelation's  light; 
But  did  they  see  the  very  Sooth, 

And  understand  the  sight? 

That  faithful  souls  may  come  to  be 

True  children  of  the  Lord 
We  know  from  Christ's  own  lips,  and  we 

Can  rest  upon  His  word. 

But  there  were  those  about  His  path — 

As  Scribe  and  Pharisee — 
To  whom  He  said,  in  righteous  wrath, 

"Children  of  hell  are  ye." 

Is  man  a  complex  entity — 

Part  devilish,  part  divine, 
Part  brute — wherein  perversity 

Has  marred  a  great  design? 

In  body  to  the  brutes  akin, 

He  shares  their  life  in  part; 
But  Satan,  save  thro'  man's  own  sin, 

Has  no  place  in  his  heart. 

Into  man's  nature  at  his  birth 
God  breathed  two  lives — so  runs 

The  record — one,  the  life  of  earth, 
The  other,  of  His  sons. 

And,  had  not  his  self-will  transgressed 

The  Father's  single  ban, 
Man  had  grown  up,  blessing  and  blest, 

Unto  the  perfect  man. 


[26] 


'Twas  selfishness  brought  down  a  curse, 

By  opening  hearts  to  sin; 
Man  had  free  choice;  he  chose  the  worse, 

And  Satan  entered  in. 

And  still  he  enters  every  heart 

Ruled  by  self-will,  and  still, 
Playing  in  it  the  Tempter's  part, 

Betrays  it  into  ill. 

Aye,  and  there  are  who,  giving  place 

To  Satan,  come  to  be 
Dehumanized — too  brute,  too  base, 

To  be  of  the  family. 

Yet  souls  have  that  in  them  which  can 

Resist  the  Evil  One  ; 
The  life  of  God  is  in  each  man, 

And  God  claims  him  as  son. 

Still  lies  before  him  the  Great  Choice; 

Still  penitence  finds  grace; 
Aye,  and  it  makes  God's  heart  rejoice 

When  sinners  seek  His  Face. 

No  soul  need  be  a  brute;  no  soul 

Need  be  a  devil's  child; 
The  Father's  house  is  our  true  goal — 

The  home  of  the  undefiled. 

Twixt  the  old  Paradise  and  new 

A  weary  desert  lies; 
Aye,  but  thro'  it  pure  souls  and  true 

Win  to  the  Heavenlies. 


[27] 


Euge 


OD  and  my  own  right  hand — the  cry 
Echoes  Saint  George's  creed — 
'Tis  Faith  and  Work  in  harmony, 
God's  strength  behind  man's  deed. 

God  first — no  work  can  be  good  work 
But  what  His  will  commands; 

Man  next — God  helps  no  souls  who  shirk 
Tasks  that  lie  to  their  hands. 

Life  is  no  day  of  idleness, 

Or  sin;  its  span  is  given 
For  work,  for  acts  of  righteousness, 

For  Teachings  after  Heaven. 

Duty  to  God,  duty  to  man — 

That's  life's  true  industry; 
Two  words  sum  up  its  scope  and  plan — 

Holiness,  Charity. 

Who  make  this  royal  rule  their  own, 

And  shape  their  lives  thereon, 
Shall  win,  before  the  Great  White  Throne, 

The  Master's  kind  "Well  done." 


[28] 


MISCELLA 


Kinship 


STAND  by  your  own ;  stand  by 
Your  kith  and  kin ; 
Stand  by  the  family, 

Thro*  thick  and  thin; 
Stand  up  for  its  good  name; 

It's  your  name  too ; 
Never  let  taint  of  shame 
Hurt  it  thro1  you. 

If  fortune  seems  to  frown, 

And  things  go  ill 
With  them,  stand  by  your  own ; 

Hold  to  them  still. 
Keep  kinship's  claim  in  mind, 

Remembering 
This— that  "akin"  and  "kind" 

Mean  the  same  thing. 

You  may  not  turn  your  face 

From  any  soul 
That  needs  and  asks  your  grace — 

Your  pity's  dole. 
To  flout  such  were  a  sin, 

But  the  blood-call— 
The  cry  of  kith  and  kin — 

Ranks  first  of  all. 

Traitors,  who  love  a  lie, 

For  profit's  sake 
Break  other  ties;  this  tie 

They  cannot  break. 
Nothing,  All  Nature  saith, 

Snaps  the  blood-bond; 
It  holds  thro1  life  to  death, 

Aye,  and  beyond. 


[31] 


A  Cameo 


BOY'S  verse,  dedicate  years  ago 
To  her,  whose  tender  sympathy 
Mothered  him — 'tis  a  cameo, 
Clear-cut  as  in  chalcedony. 

A  picture  but  in  words?    Well,  yes; 

And  yet  what  carver's  artistry 
Could  make  this  vision  of  loveliness 

More  present  to  our  spirit's  eye? 

Her  "hyacinth  hair,"  her  "classic  face," 
Her  "Naiad  airs/'  the  charm  that  gives 

Her  form  its  spiritual  grace — 
All  this  we  see,  and  for  us  she  lives : 

Lives  as  they  lived  in  breathing  bronze, 
Or  marble,  whom  the  golden  age 

Of  sculptors  imaged — the  mighty  ones 
Of  mythic  cult  and  epic  page. 

Art-gems  there  are  that  are  for  the  few, 
But,  thanks  to  Edgar  Allen  Poe, 

No  matter  where  they  be,  or  who, 
All  souls  may  see  this  cameo. 


[32] 


Fates  Sacer 


HE  poet  is  born,  not  made;  aye,  and  yet  he 
Must  make  himself,  if  poet  he  is  to  be: 
Must  learn  the  secrets  of  the  poet's  art : 
Must  find  his  way  to  -the  great  human  heart : 
Must  see  in  fragrant  flower  and  glittering  star 
Mirrored  reflections  of  the  things  that  are: 
Must  hear  the  solemn  music  of  the  spheres, 
And  echo  its  harmonies  to  duller  ears : 
Must  use  all  Nature  as  a  parable, 
Telling  what  else  were  all  ineffable. 
No  "frenzy  fine,"  no  sweep  of  "rolling  eye," 
Will  make  an  expert  in  this  alchemy. 
The  poet  by  birth  to  reach  majority 
Must  nurse  and  train  his  native  faculty; 
Poetic  genius  in  embryo 
Is  his,  but  he  must  rear  and  make  it  grow. 
It  needs  self-knowledge  and  self-discipline 
To  make  his  heart  drink  in  the  Breath  divine. 
It  needs  the  learner's  patient  industry 
To  store  his  mind  with  language  pure  and  high. 
Words  noble  must  he  seek  for  noble  thought, 
Nor  rest  content  with  less  than  that  he  sought : 
Must  file  and  chasten,  alter  and  erase, 
Till  the  true  word  at  last  finds  its  true  place. 
The  mighty  bards  of  Hellas  and  of  Rome 
Must  beckon  him  to  the  heights  whereto  they  clomb ; 
Milton  and  Dante  too  must  point  his  aim 
Above  the  petty  lust  of  vulgar  fame. 
To  lift  men's  hearts,  to  make  them  see  and  feel 
True  Beauty — its  example  and  appeal — 
That  is  the  poet's  work — the  enterprise 
Which  is  at  once  his  calling  and  its  prize. 
So  and  so  only  shall  he  train  his  soul 
To  climb  Parnassus'  peak — the  poet's  goal. 
So  and  so  only  shall  he  make  his  rime 
A  thing  to  conquer  death,  and  outlive  Time. 


[33] 


Posies 


OETRY  is  the  language  of  the  soul— 
Its  thoughts  made  utterance  by  the  spirit's 

breath ; 

To  reach  the  great  world-heart — that  is  its  goal ; 
Its  themes — the  things  that  count  in  life  and  death. 

Carols  of  birds,  the  thunder's  echoing  roll, 
The  rivulet's  laugh,  the  South  Wind's  quiet  sigh, 

The  still  small  voice  that  thrilled  the  prophet's  soul, 
All  meet  in  that  which  men  call  Poetry. 

In  this  phantasmal  world,  which  men  count  home, 
We  see  but  outward  shows,  and  call  them  real ; 

To  the  true  bard,  as  to  the  seer,  there  come 
Visions  of  that  which  IS — of  the  ideal 

She  came — the  Spirit  eterne  of  Poetry — 

Into  this  order  of  created  things 
To  find  interpreters,  and  voice  thereby 

To  human  ears  the  message  that  She  brings ; 
And  hearts  are  ever  answering  to  her  call, 
But  only  one  small  bird  has  heard  it  all. 

Poetry,  Music,  and  the  painter's  art, 
Aye,  and  the  sculptor's,  are  a  harmony 

Of  revelations,  imaging  to  the  heart 
The  Beauty  that  is  of  Eternity. 

Poetry  is  the  workmanship  whereby 

The  inspirations  of  immortal  breath 
Are  fashioned  into  song — a  symphony 

Of  words,  whose  echoes  ring  thro'  life  and  death. 

Sevenfold  as  the  voice  of  Music 
Is  the  voice  of  Poetry, 


[34] 


Ranging  from  the  stately  Epic 

To  the  mirth  of  Comedy; 
But  its  best  loved  note  is  Lyric, 

Sweet  Euterpe's  specialty. 

When  Poetry  came  to  this  Babylon, 
She  found  a  babel  of  discordant  cries; 

She  called  in  Music,  and  with  her  anon 
Resolved  the  discords  into  harmonies. 

So  Arcady  took  birth.    Ah  !  Well-a-day ! 

That  souls  who  will  not  hear  brawl  on  for  aye ! 

A  Poem  is  of  heaven  and  earth;  its  soul 
Is  of  the  breath  divine;  its  symmetry 

Is  of  the  poet;  bowing  to  the  control 

Of  rhythm  and  rime  he  shapes  his  artistry, 

Until  the  thing  stands  forth  a  perfect  Whole — 
Thought  clothed  in  words  that  match  it — Poetry. 

Poesy  is  a  craft;  a  breath  divine 

Must  be  its  vital  spark,  but  artistry 
Must  shape  its  fancies,  and  the  outward  sign 

Must  match  the  inward  grace  in  dignity. 
Pure  words  and  noble  lend  verse  majesty; 
Balance  and  pattern  give  it  symmetry. 

The  Arts  are  sisters;  Poetry  is  kin 

To  Music,  kin  too  to  the  painter's  art; 

Thus  each  interprets  each,  and  thus  all  win 
Alike  their  triumphs  as  they  touch  the  heart. 

Poetry  is  creation,  it  must  call 

That  into  being  which  were  elsewise  naught; 
He  who  would  fashion  it  needs  first  of  all 

The  inspiration  of  a  noble  thought; 
This  won,  his  art  must  image  it — must  give 
It  substance — shaped  in  words  that  breathe  and  live. 


[35] 


Beauty — the  beauty  that  is  goodness  too, 
For  both  are  of  one  stock — whatever  things 

Are  fair  and  noble,  innocent  and  true — 
Of  beauty  such  as  this  the  poet  sings. 

He  sees  a  vision  beckoning  souls  to  rise, 

And  points  their  hopes  and  longings  to  the  skies. 

Co-operant  in  one  great  design, 
Music  and  Poetry  combine 

To  lift  man's  heart  and  mind; 
It  is  not  poetry,  it  is 
Not  music,  that  comes  short  of  this; 

It  is  but  noise  and  wind. 

Music  and  Poetry  are  one  at  heart — 

Two  bodies,  but  one  soul ; 
Together,  as  each  plays  its  proper  part, 

They  make  a  perfect  Whole. 

They  have  their  own  trench-songs — the  men 
Who  face  the  Hun,  now  and  again 

Varied  by  joke  or  story; 
But,  when  they  stand  affronting  death, 
And  less  dour  souls  might  hold  their  breath, 

The  Scots  sing  "Annie  Laurie." 

Strained  nerves — what  helps  them  in  the  tense 
Pause  of  expectance  or  suspense, 

When  battle  is  at  hand? 
Ah  then,  the  trenches'  length  along, 
You'll  hear  the  lilt  of  some  old  home-song, 

That  speaks  of  Motherland. 


[36] 


Mirrors 


ERE  in  enigma  and  in  mystery 
We  see  and  hear  what  lies  beyond  the  veil, 
Now  in  some  sunset's  mystic  imagery, 

Now  in  the  melody  of  the  nightingale ; 
For  Nature  is  a  mirror,  broken  in  part, 
Yet  flashing  gleams  of  truth  upon  the  heart. 

"Draw  up  the  blind,  friends,  and  let  in  the  light"- 
So  spake  the  dying  seeker  after  Truth; 

Death  answered,  and  flung  open  to  his  sight 
The  gates  of  light  ideal — of  God's  own  Sooth. 

In  Nature's  mirrors  here  we  see 

The  mysteries  of  Eternity; 

And  we  may  mirror  that  which  lies 

Beyond  their  ken  to  mortal  eyes : 

May  train  our  hearts  to  be  in  sooth 

Reflectors  of  eternal  Truth. 

For,  as  we  gaze  with  open  face 

Upon  the  glory  of  God's  grace, 

It  takes  us,  shapes  us,  stamps  on  us 

The  image  of  itself ;  and  thus 

Makes  hearts  and  lives  reflect  to  sight 

The  beauty  of  the  Infinite. 

(Cf.  1  Cor.  XIII.  12.  2  Cor.  III.  18.) 


[37] 


Epigrammata  Quaedam 

Life 

'  IFE  is  existence,  manifest 
*  In   its  activities : 
A  spiritual  thing  expressed 

In  sacramental  wise. 
Its  tenements  are  the  outward  sign : 
Itself,  a  spark  of  fire  divine, 

The  Gospel  story  tells  us  what 
Life — perfect  life — must  be; 

It's  being,  and  it's  doing,  that 
Which  is  of  Charity. 

Life  is  a  spring  of  energy; 

It's  being,  and  it's  doing; 
And,  as  the  doing,  so  must  be 

The  being — joy  or  ruing. 


The  Breath  of  Lives 

(Gen.   2:  7.) 

What  is  man's  life  ?    A  breath ; 

It  breathes  once,  and  is  gone; 
Yes,  but  man's  spirit  outlives  death; 

That  breath  breathes  on. 


Facilis  Descensus 

The  Roman  bards  apparently 
Led  off  with  forms  of  Comedy — 
The  rude  Fescennine  verse,  whose  chaff 
And  jokes  were  sung  to  raise  a  laugh — 


[38] 


Which  shows  that  in  world-history 

There  was  a  human  infancy; 

For  childhood's  tastes  are  gastronomic, 

And,  when  not  gastronomic,  comic. 

That' s  natural  enough,  for  both 

Tastes  answer  to  the  laws  of  growth. 

But  what  if  any  later  age 

Falls  back  to  life's  infantile  stage, 

And,  proudly  posing  as  adult, 

Yet  makes  Thalia's  sock  its  cult, 

And  turns  up  its  aesthetic  nose 

At  everything  but  jokes  and  shows? 

So  fell  Old  Rome  degenerate — 

A  warning  never  out  of  date 

To  childish  man  and  childish  State. 


[39] 


Old-Time  Apothegms 


back  your  shield  or  be  brought  back  upon 
your  shield,  my  son"  — 
So  Spartan  mothers  sent  their  sons  to  war;   so  wars 
were  won. 

That  is  the  worst  corruption  which  corrupts  that  which 

is  best; 
That,  which  was  best,  corrupted  is  of  all  things  rot- 

tenest.. 

So  fallen  Lucifer  became  of  fiends  the  fiendliest; 
So  fallen  saints  too  may  become  of  sinners  sinfullest. 

When   men   desert   their    senses,   when   they   cast   out 

reason,  then** 
God  wills  that  they  should  perish  —  that  is,   as   being 

no  longer  men, 
He  turns  them  to  destruction,  that  they  may  be  born 

again. 

We  bear   two   wallets,   one   upon   our   breast,   one  on 

our  back; 
Our  neighbours'   faults  —  they're  handy  there  to   see  — 

fill  the  front  sack; 
Our    own    we    store,    well    out    of    sight,    within    the 

hinder  pack. 

"Big   book,   big   ill"  —  the   sentiment   reflects   old-world 

ideas, 
Perhaps   our   own.     But   what   about  Encyclopaedias? 

Water  will  hollow,  drop  by  drop,  the  hardest  rock  — 

'tis  said; 
Eternal    cataracts    wouldn't    even    dent    a    Know-All's 

head. 

**Quem  Deus  vult  perdere,  prius  dementit.  God  does 
not  will  to  destroy  a  man  until  the  man  has,  by 
sinning  against  it,  quenched  the  light  that  is  in  him  — 
the  light  that  makes  him  man.  The  transitive  form 
"dementat"  lacks  authority.  Cp.  Psalm  XC.  3. 

[40] 


D.  E.  S. 


her  dying  bed,  in  perfect  peace, 
Diana  lay;  within  the  solemn  room — 
Still  with  the  stillness  of  a  holy  calm — 
Her  nearest  and  her  dearest  with  sad  eyes 
Watched  her  fast-failing  breath; 

when  suddenly 

A  radiant  glory  lighted  all  her  face 
With  a  half-satisfied,  half-yearning  smile; 
And  eagerly  with  upward  look,  as  though 
She  saw  heaven's  hosts  descending  from  on  high 
To  carry  her  aloft  to  rest  and  peace, 
She  strove  to  raise  herself,  and  lift  her  hands 
Towards  them  as  they  came;  and  joyfully 
She  whispered — "Two  of  them  can  carry  me 
Easily,  easily"; 

her  pale  lips  closed, 

But  o'er  her  happy  features  still  there  shone 
The  smile  of  glad  content,  still  in  her  eyes 
The  light  of  welcome ;  and,  while  thus  she  gazed 
On  the  bright  glories  bursting  on  her  sight, 
She  passed  into  the  Paradise  of  God. 

O  crowning  triumph  of  a  life  that  had, 
By  grace  of  the  most  Holy  Trinity, 
Fought  the  good  fight  and  conquered;  for  the  strife 
Was  over  now ;  the  victories  won :  and  lo ! 
The  angels  came  and  ministered  to  her. 

Dear  in  the  Father's  sight  is  such  a  death, 
And  holy;  but  not  simply  for  her  sake 
Whose  eyes  beheld  it  was  that  vision  shown, 
But  also  for  their  sakes  who  stood  around, 
Aye,  and  for  those  to  whom  the  tale  should  come. 
It  took  from  grief  its  sting,  and  bade  them  know 
Who  loved  her  that  thrice  blessed  was  her  lot, 
And  that  beyond  earth's  changes,  where  are  set 


[41] 


The  many  mansions  of  the  Father's  House, 
There,  'mid  the  waiting  throng  of  ransomed  saints, 
The  peace  of  God  was  hers  for  evermore. 

But  not  to  loved  ones  only  did  it  speak. 
It  came  a  token  to  the  Church  at  large, 
As  came  Epiphanies  to  Paul,  and  John, 
And  martyred  Stephen,  eloquent  of  love 
And  tender  care — His  care  and  love  Who  blessed 
The  exiled  Jacob,  in  his  hour  of  need, 
With  Bethel's  vision,  and  made  manifest 
The  hosts  of  Dothan  to  a  doubting  soul. 
"O  human  hearts,"  it  said,  "endure  and  trust 
As  seeing  Him  Who  is  invisible. 
Heaven  is  about  you,  though  your  eyes  are  blind, 
Or  catch  but  faint  reflections  of  the  truth, 
And  the  Sabaoth  of  the  King  of  kings 
Not  only  battle,  ranged  in  serried  ranks, 
Against  the  legions  of  the  Prince  of  Hell, 
But  also  have  their  several  ministries 
Of  comfort  and  of  help,  as  sent  to  guide 
Through  this  dark  wilderness  of  doubt  and  fear 
To  opened  heavens  the  souls  which  Christ's  dear  love 
Has  ransomed  from  the 'grave  of  self  and  sin, 
And  called  to  live  His  life,  and  share  His  joy." 


[42] 


Christmas  Day 

(S.   Luke  I.  78) 

S  God's  heart  room  for  sympathy 
With  fallen  man,  with  sinful  earth? 
That  is  man's  question.     God's  reply 
Stands  written  in  the  Virgin  Birth. 


Amaranto 


are  the  flowers  which  we  brought  our  child, 
As  she  lay  on  her  dying  bed ; 
They  gave  their  message,  and  now  each  bloom 
Is  withered  and  dry  and  dead. 

And  faded  the  wreaths  which  hid  her  grave 

Till  it  seemed  like  a  garden's  pride; 
They  sent  their  message,  and  they  too  now 

Are  things  to  be  cast  aside. 

But  the  love  which  they  witnessed — that  is  not  dead; 

Love  is  of  eternity; 
And  the  tale  which  they  told  her  is  told  her  still 

By  flowers  that  never  die. 


[43] 


Homeward  Bound 


SOFT  and  kind  was  the  morning  breeze, 
As  it  sprang  from  its  home  in  the  West, 
And  kissed  the  pale  face  of  a  dying  child, 
Clasped  close  to  its  mother's  breast. 

And  fresh  and  clear  was  the  midday  breeze, 
As  it  swept  o'er  the  dancing  sea, 

And  filled  with  its  breath  the  bellying  sails 
Of  a  good  ship,  running  free. 

And  calm  and  quiet  the  evening  breeze, 

As  it  died  o'er  land  and  sea; 
For  child  and  ship  it  had  wafted  home 

To  the  haven  where  each  would  be. 


Troth-plight 


E  plighted  troth  upon  a  day — 
The  day  my  lad  went  off  to  sea; 
We  swore  that  we'd  be  true  for  aye, 
And  true  for  aye  we'll  surely  be. 

I  know  that  we  shall  meet  again; 

Aye,  but  it  won't  be  here  and  now; 
His  ship  lies  low  beneath  the  main, 

And  he — well,  he's  aloft,  I  trow. 


[44] 


Einheriar 


were  brave  men  ere  Agamemnon's  days, 
Aye  many,  but  all  unwept  they  lie,  unknown 
For  lack  of  sacred  bard  to  hymn  their  praise, 
Of  epic  song  to  publish  their  renown. 

So  mourned  the  Roman  poet;  his  lament 
Echoes  itself  not  once  nor  twice  again, 

As  heroes  fall;  as  gallant  soul  is  rent 

From  stalwart  body,  and  earth  receives  her  slain. 

It's  always  so,  it  always  must  be  so, 
In  war;  for  in  the  battle's  fierce  pell-mell 

Men  fall  by  thousands  —  fall  as  foe  meets  foe, 
Fall  to  the  fiery  storm  of  shot  and  shell. 

And  many  a  doughty  feat  of  arms  is  known 
Only  to  those  who  wrought  it  as  they  died  — 

Acts  of  self-sacrifice,  of  lives  laid  down 

For  comrades,  in  life's  beauty  and  life's  pride. 

Who  shall  rehearse  such  golden  deeds  as  these? 

How  shall  the  whole  wide  world  of  nations  breed 
Poets  enow  to  hymn  such  gallantries 

In  full  tale,  and  according  to  their  meed? 

But  not  unknown  upon  the  other  side 
Are  heroes  when  they  pass  from  mortal  ken: 

Not  whelmed  in  darkness,  as  the  poet  sighed, 
But  manifest  as  the  souls  of  valiant  men. 

Their  record  goes  before  them,  and  the  name 

Of  each  true  soul,  for  its  fidelity, 
Finds  place  in  the  triumphal  Hall  of  Fame, 

The  Panheroion,  of  Eternity. 

[45] 


Aye,  and  to  all,  who  do  their  duty,  come 

Due  recognition  and  a  sure  reward — 
The  "Well  done"  of  approval,  and  a  home 

Of  rest,  and  then — work  for  their  King  and  Lord. 

Their  badge  of  honour  is  no  heraldic  shield, 

No  bar  or  jewel  or  any  earthly  sign; 
Blazoned  upon  their  foreheads  stand,  revealed 

In  mystic  hieroglyphs,  the  Names  Divine. 

Not  nameless,  O  not  nameless,  are  they  there; 

Each  name  is  entered  on  the  Eternal  roll; 
Not  lost  to  sight;  the  everlasting  Care 

Numbers  them,  and  would  miss  a  single  soul. 

Note — "Einheriar"    is    the    Norse    name    for    warriors    who 
enter  Valhalla. 


[46] 


Our  Dead 


shall  we  say  of  those  who  gave 
Their  lives  at  Britain's  claim, 
Nor  held  them  dear  so  they  might  save 
Their  Motherland's  fair  fame: 

Who  fought  and  fell   for  kith  and  kin, 

For  Freedom  and  the  Right; 
To  whom  disloyalty  was  sin, 

And  Justice  more  than  Might? 

From  the  Homeland  and  from  afar, 

Across  the  seas,  they  came; 
The  blood-bond  drew  them  to  the  war — 

That,  and  the  British  name. 

Now,  of  the  hearts  that  beat  so  high, 

Many  are  stilled  for  aye; 
And  lives  that  seemed  too  young  to  die, 

Too  dear,  have  passed  away. 

Shall  we  deplore  them?  Hearts  are  rent, 

And  weeping  were  no  shame; 
Nay,  they  are  lift  above  lament; 

Paean,  not  dirge,  they  claim. 

As  Hellas  in  the  olden  days 

Bent  o'er  her  gallant  dead, 
And  gave  them —  not  her  tears,  but —  praise, 

We  dry  our  tears,  half-shed; 

And,  with  the  thanks,  the  grateful  praise, 

Of  those  he  died  to  save, 
We  lay  a  wreath  of  deathless  bays 

Upon  each  hero's  grave. 


[47] 


On  Mount  Soracte 

(Written   for   a    Druidical   function.) 

OTau-Bel-Hesus,  as  before 
This  karn,  your  local  shrine, 
We  stand,  as  Druids  wont  of  yore, 
We  make  our  mystic  sign. 

Refrain.      Hey    derry    down,    derry 
down.* 

We  offer  too  of  mistletoe 

A  spray,  by  way  of  sample ; 
We  want  the  rest  ourselves,  and  so 

We  hope  you'll  think  this  ample. 
Refrain. 

And  on  your  altar,  see,  we  light 

An  emblematic  fire, 
Not  simply  as  a  pretty  sight — 

A  thing  for  to  admire. 
Refrain. 

Nor  does  it  flame,  as  once  it  would 
Have  flamed,  to  make  a  pyre ; 

Its  object  is  to  speak  of  good 
Purpose,  and  high  desire. 
Refrain. 

We  burn  no  human  victims  now, 
Nor  eat  them  when  they're  torrid ;  ** 

Our  laws  such  customs  disallow — 
In  fact,  we  think  them  horrid. 
Refrain. 

The  fires  we  kindle  symbolize 

Truth,  purity,  devotion; 
And  Tau-Bel-Hesus,  if  you're  wise, 

You  will  accept  this  notion. 
Refrain. 

'  Said  to  be  an  old  Druidical  chorus 

'*  According  to  Pliny,  the  Druids  ate  their  victims. 

[48] 


Dogged 


MOST  unscrupulous  little  sinner, 
Bearing  a  soft  romantic  name, 
Sheila,  with  naught  of  softness  in  her — 
Into  our  home  and  hearts  she  came. 

Of  bluest  aristocratic  blood, 

Bred  of  the  stock  they  breed  in  Skye, 

Long-haired,   short-legged,  sharp-nosed,   she  stood 
Somewhere  about  six  inches  high. 

Thoroughly  spoilt,  she  had  a  hot 

Temper,  and  any  amount  of  pride; 
Her  tastes  were  dainty;  she  claimed  and  got 

The  best  of  all  that  the  house  supplied. 

Once,  thought  to  be  delicate,  she  was  clad 

In  a  jacket;  she  had  no  use  for  it; 
Tho'  little  more  than  a  toy,  she  had 

A  bulldog's  pluck,  and  a  bulldog's  grit. 

She'd  a  sense  of  sport  in  her  soul  all  right, 

But  limited  in  its  range  and  scope; 
She  had  no  sympathy  of  delight 

With  the  spaniel's  joy,  or  the  setter's  hope. 

In  a  sort  of  half-hearted  way  she'd  run 
After  rabbits;  at  times  she  would  chivy  cats; 

But,  if  you  wanted  to  see  some  fun, 
You  had  only  to  mention  the  one  word — "Rats." 

One  day  we  missed  her;  she  didn't  come 

To  dinner — a  most  unwonted  thing; 
She  had  followed  the  old  rat-catcher  home, 

We  thought,  to  return  when  she'd  had  her  fling. 

[49] 


She  never  came  back  again;  we  sought, 

But  sought  her  vainly,  everywhere, 
Till,  all  of  a  sudden,  occurred  a  thought 

Of  the  moat — had  somebody  drowned  her  there — 

Some  tramp  she'd  bitten?     She  was,  we  knew, 

A  trifle  free  with  her  teeth,  if  vext; 
So  we  drained  the  moat,  and  then  the  true 

Story  some  out — comment  and  text. 

For  three  feet  down  we  found  her  dead, 
Gripping  a  dead  rat,  thigh  and  shank — 

A  rat  whose  shoulders,  fore  paws  and  head 

Were  wedged  in  a  hole  in  the  root-bound  bank. 

She  had  chased  the  rat,  when  it  made  a  bolt, 
To  the  moat's  steep  brink,  to  the  depths  below; 

She  had  caught  it  just  as  it  gained  its  holt, 
And  died  with  it  rather  than  let  it  go. 


[50] 


YB   12049 


491578 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


